


a fatal fall

by helenecixous



Category: Happy Valley (TV)
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, banter and fluff and diy lesbians, flpflpflfplfpfk this has Not been proof read, thanks tori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7182917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catherine huffs, sits back on her heels and blows upwards, moving her fringe from her face. She grabs the drill with one hand, not ready to use it just yet but appreciating the way it makes her feel like there is progress on the horizon, makes her look like she’s teetering on the verge of a breakthrough. And she should be, considering that she’s been fighting with a flat pack wardrobe from Ikea for the last three thousand years, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fatal fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firelordazulas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelordazulas/gifts), [claireunderwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/claireunderwood/gifts).



She’s halfway into her second bottle of wine, and she’s kneeling in the middle of an endless sea of pinewood, screws, and instructions that might as well have been written in Russian. Catherine huffs, sits back on her heels and blows upwards, moving her fringe from her face. She grabs the drill with one hand, not ready to use it just yet but appreciating the way it makes her feel like there is progress on the horizon, makes her look like she’s teetering on the verge of a breakthrough. And she should be, considering that she’s been fighting with a flat pack wardrobe from Ikea for the last three thousand years, at least. She stands up, wiggles her toes, bends down to pick up her wine and take a hearty swig, and she’s about to sit back down again when there’s a sharp knock on the door. She sighs, turns, kicks a few stray papers that could have been instructions, the warrant, the receipt, or the manager of Ikea’s diary, for all she knows, and heads downstairs to open the door.

Kirsten’s standing outside, and her lips stretch into a wide grin when Catherine throws the door open, and she gives the sergeant a quick once over. “Wow, Catherine,” she says, one eyebrow raised. “Fancy dress?”

Catherine smiles, looks down at herself and shrugs. She’s wearing a pair of light blue jeans that have rips in the knees, and she can’t remember whether they had been a stylistic choice or an accident, a white vest top, and a red and black checked shirt tied around her waist. Her hair’s pulled up in a messy ponytail, and she’s got a glass of wine in one hand, and a drill in the other. “You caught me,” she says, stepping aside so that Kirsten can come in. “You’ve found me alter ego.”

“What’re you goin’ for?” Kirsten asks, closing the door behind her. “Lumberjack? Butch lesbian? Screwfix manager?”

“Well why not all three?” Catherine leads Kirsten through into the kitchen and opens the cupboard to dig out a glass. “Wine? I got a crackin’ bottle open. Here-” she hands Kirsten her glass, and Kirsten takes a sip, grinning.

“Oooh, go on then,” Kirsten says, handing the glass back after taking another taste. “Why not?”

Catherine takes a glass out of the cupboard and hands it to Kirsten before she picks the drill and her own drink back up and gestures for Kirsten to follow her up the stairs so she can get the bottle. “So what brings you ‘ere?” she asks, pushing the bedroom door open.

“Well I was just pa-” Kirsten stops dead, looking around the room. “Jesus Christ, Catherine.” She crouches and picks up a stray page of instructions. “‘ow long ‘ave you been doin’ this?”

“About fifteen minutes?” Catherine hums, pouring Kirsten a glass and handing it to her.

“Fifteen minutes my arse. You, Catherine Cawood, big tough scary sergeant, Catherine Cawood who takes out druggies, Catherine Cawood, you, you who picks fights with men who could be cage fighters for all you know - Catherine Cawood, defeated by a tree.”

They’re both laughing as Kirsten takes the glass, and Catherine points the drill at her. “All right then, wise guy. Let’s see what you’ve got for me, hm? How old ‘ave you gotta be before you stop feelin’ immortal?”

Kirsten drops to her knees and pulls the instructions towards her, and then looks around. “Why ‘aven’t you put all the screws in one place, at least? Catherine, c’mon, how do you expect to get anythin’ done like this?”

“Oh all right,” Catherine scoffs, grabbing all of the screws she can see and reach, and rolling them over to Kirsten. “Anyway, lady, why are you ‘ere? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you’re a bit out of the blue.”

“I saw the bat signal.”

“Sorry?”

“The ‘Catherine’s struggling with a flat pack wardrobe’ signal. Figured it’d be somethin’ I’d wanna witness. Great for blackmailin’ material.”

“Oh shut up,” Catherine laughs, finishing her glass and refilling it. “C’mon then, Batman, I’m waitin’ for this stroke of genius. I expect this wardrobe to be up an’ finished in twenty minutes, tops.”

“God, no wonder you ain’t seein’ no one, Catherine. Bloody high maintenance, is what you are.”

“Are you allowed to say tha’?”

“I dunno, am I?” Kirsten looks up at Catherine and sips her wine, a warm light in her eyes, an expression that’s mirrored for a second in the face of the sergeant before she looks away.

“I think you can get away with it,” she says eventually, standing up. “Just about.”

Kirsten drops the instructions and stands up as well, putting her glass to the side and planting her hands on her hips. “Right. We need the back board. That one.” She points to the board that’s in the middle of the room, and Catherine moves to pick it up, propping it up against the wall. “Now pass us those screws, would you?”

“Would you,  _ Sarg,”  _ Catherine mutters, but does as she’s told anyway, ducking as Kirsten takes a swipe at her.

“Don’t you get pullin’ rank on me now! Doesn’t count when we’re not in uniform.”

“Shit, doesn’t it? Must’ve not read the fineprint.”

“All right, wait, make sure I don’t - fall -” Kirsten says, stepping over the small but wide pile of wood that’s spread in front of the piece she needs. She manages to balance herself, legs spread wide, and she leans forward, holding the screws between her lips as she picks up another piece. “Pass me the drill.”

Catherine does, and she’s about to pick up her glass when one of the small pieces beneath Kirsten’s foot dislodges, but before she could slip very far, Catherine’s hands are firm on her hips, steadying her, and they’re both laughing.

 

Somehow they both end up sitting on the floor facing each other, their wine glasses between them, and they’ve been there for hours. They’ve both obtained random bruises that are half inexplicable, and there’s no way to distinguish one piece of wood from the next anymore.

Catherine sits back, sighing and rubbing her cheek. “I’ve been doin’ this for years. Ten years. Twenty. Thirty, even. Me grandson’s married. I don’t know me own name. The land has been infertile for seven- no, eight years. The year is-”

“Are you always this dramatic?” Kirsten asks. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and if she was asked she’d probably blame it on the alcohol, or the fact that the room is a little bit too warm. It’s got nothing at all to do with the fact that she’s never seen Catherine so relaxed, even when she’s been round for dinner or out with her for drinks. There’s just something about the other woman, as though a previously invisible boundary has been breached, and something that was between them has fallen away. She reaches out, resting her hand on Catherine’s knee as Catherine looks up, indignant, about to argue. “Shall we get this finished?” she asks.

Catherine rolls her eyes, pulling a face. “That change of subject was not subtle, not at all,” she says, trying to look stern and failing.

“What’re you gonna do?” Kirsten asks, leaning back to grab another piece of wood, inspecting it. “Tell me boss?”

“I just might,” Catherine murmurs, looking closely at a small scratch that’s appeared on her arm. “‘ere, how is it that we’ve been doin’ this long enough to get injured, and all we ‘ave to show for the bruises is-” she gestures at the wardrobe and shrugs. “Well, what is this? It’s ain’t ‘owt but four pieces of wood nailed together.”

 

They get through almost two other bottles of wine, and they’re giggling and holding on to each other, and the only things that are left are the doors. Between them, they hoist one up and prop it against the frame, and Catherine lifts it, holds it in place as Kirsten kneels to drill the screws. She gets a little distracted when she looks up, spends a little bit too much time focused on the way that Catherine’s arms are steady and defined, and the curves of her waist and her breasts. She exhales, and then stands up, shaking her head.

“We’ve got somethin’ wrong,” she mutters, picking her glass back up and draining it. “It ain’t gonna go.”

“What?” Catherine asks, breathless. “How? It’s a fuckin’ flat pack! None of it will go in any other way.”

“The door ain’t gonna fit, Catherine.”

Catherine puts the door down huffs, grabbing the instructions and leafing through them. “We’ve got eight screws, two doors. That’s all we have left, and that’s all we need, what the hell. This is wank. Utter wank.”

“Eloquent. You’ve got a real way with words, really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, don’t you?”

“Warnin’,” Catherine says, pointing at Kirsten, a small grin on her face. “That’s a warnin’, missy.”

“Yeah?” Kirsten challenges, wiggling her eyebrows. “Or what? You’ll… assemble a wardrobe? Please do. Be my guest.”

“Right.” Catherine puts her wine down and strides forward, and Kirsten laughs, squeals, and takes off, running from the room and down the stairs quickly, laughing and quickly looking around to figure out which way to go.

Catherine catches up with her as Kirsten opens the living room door, and she wraps her arms around Kirsten’s waist, half lifting her as they both fall back onto the sofa, laughing breathlessly. Somehow they fall so that Kirsten’s above Catherine, bracing herself with her arm just to the side of the other woman’s head, and they both fall silent, watching each other carefully.

Kirsten cups Catherine’s cheek and tentatively lets her thumb run over the corner of the sergeant’s mouth, and Catherine’s breath catches. They both are becoming increasingly aware of themselves, and Catherine gently presses a small kiss to the pad of Kirsten’s thumb.

Kirsten smiles and leans down, closes the gap between them both and kisses Catherine’s lips softly, closing her eyes as Catherine tangles her fingers in Kirsten’s hair, keeping her close.

“We’ve got a wardrobe to finish building,” Kirsten whispers, gasping and laughing as Catherine wraps both arms around her and pulls her to her firmly.

“Bollocks to the wardrobe,” Catherine mutters, kissing Kirsten’s lips again. “You never told me why you came round.”

“Do I need to ‘ave a reason to wanna see you?” Kirsten asks softly, shifting herself so she can fit herself against the other woman properly. “‘aven’t seen you in ages, ‘ave I? It makes me ‘appy to see you. Strugglin’ with a wardrobe an’ all.”

Catherine grins and closes her eyes, taken by surprise when Kirsten kisses her again. “Seems like you came over with some kind of… ulterior motive,” she murmurs.

“Oh yeah, the wine was  _ excellent.” _

“Oi!” Catherine laughs, swatting Kirsten’s arm. “That’s a warnin’. Another one. Whatever. Shut up.” She cranes her neck and kisses Kirsten once more, and Kirsten responds to her, laughing softly against her lips. 


End file.
